


A Dream Itself Is But A Shadow

by HashtagTheyFucked



Category: Chilling Adventures of Sabrina (TV 2018)
Genre: Cuddling, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/F, Fluff, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Nightmares, Panic Attacks, Sharing a Bed, Sister-Sister Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-06
Updated: 2019-03-06
Packaged: 2019-11-12 18:02:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,125
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18015686
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HashtagTheyFucked/pseuds/HashtagTheyFucked
Summary: “She’s had this nightmare before. Heaven, she doesn’t even need to be asleep sometimes. The vitriol pours out of her mouth and she is powerless to stop it.”Or, Zelda has a nightmare and Hilda is tooth-rottingly sweet.Post Season 1.





	A Dream Itself Is But A Shadow

**Author's Note:**

> Could be read as platonic and completely innocent, but ummmmm... Harold... They’re just repressing those more-than-sisterly feelings. 
> 
> Regardless of how/in what ways, they both love each other so much. 
> 
> That title is from Hamlet.

* * *

 

 

 

_A dream itself is but a shadow._

_— Hamlet_

 

 

* * *

 

 

“Who could ever love  _you_?” She spits the last word at Hilda and something in her chest breaks a little bit at her sister’s answering flinch. 

 

She’s had this nightmare before. Heaven, she doesn’t even need to be asleep sometimes. The vitriol pours out of her mouth, vomited up from some twisting, angry, self-loathing place in her gut; she is powerless to stop it.

 

Sometimes, when she is awake, she tries to temper her harsh words with a small gesture of helpfulness later in the day, or a word of gracious acknowledgement of a task well done. Even an eye roll and a clipped “stop taking everything so personally, Hilda, honestly,” to let her sister know she doesn’t really mean it. If she cannot muster even that, she soothes her guilt with a bath hot enough to scald, a session with the cat-o-nine-tails, a sharp knife to her forearms or thighs if she’s desperate.

 

But when she is asleep, Zelda cannot stem the flow of hateful, bitter insults and her subconscious never allows her to carry out her own private punishments.

 

Sometimes she is reprimanded by Sabrina, in all her blazing, righteous, teenage anger as she yells at Zelda about her selfishness, her heartlessness, how awful it had been to grow up in a house with such an evil, callous bitch. Other times it is Ambrose, quiet and angry in his disgust for her as he lays out every failure, every loathsome piece of evidence confirming her worst insecurities and anxieties: that she’s stupid, incompetent, a disgrace to the Spellman name, unworthy of calling herself a witch. On occasion it is Faustus on the pulpit during black mass, preaching the awful truth of her worthlessness, her weakness, her every straying step away from the path of night until the judgmental whispers of the coven turn to jeering insults.

 

The worst, though, is the one she knows she most deserves, the consequence most likely to catch up to her one of these days.

 

It is Hilda, herself. Sweet, precious, affable Hilda, with pity in her eyes and steel in her spine, as she leaves Zelda for good. Hilda doesn’t even offer up any words— not a goodbye, not even harsh words of anger. Zelda is offered only silence and the dreadful dream-certainty that she will never hear Hilda’s ridiculously accented, achingly lovely voice again.

 

It is after one such nightmare that Zelda wakes, her face wet with tears, her heart beating hard in her throat. Hilda’s name along with nonsensical pleas linger on her lips. Once she realizes she is awake, the relief slowly sinks in. She gathers her bearings, trying to get her frantically beating heart under control.

 

_It was just a dream,_ she tells herself, _it’s not real._

 

She’s starting to calm down, can feel her blood pressure returning to normal, when she turns on her side to look over at Hilda.

 

Only, Hilda isn’t there. Seeing the neatly made bed, clearly unslept in, is like a punch to her stomach. It all comes rushing back. Hilda _has_ left her.

 

Zelda’s breathing picks up again. Her chest suddenly feels too tight for her lungs. She knows, logically, that Hilda is only down the hall in her new room, but her body seems to have decided to panic. She squeezes her eyes shut, tries to remember the mindfulness meditation bullshit Hilda wouldn’t shut up about during her yoga phase in the 70’s.

 

No, thinking of Hilda only makes it worse. She tries again with some of the breathing exercises she knows as a midwife. Zelda’s hands come up to clutch at her head, nails raking through her hair.

 

_Hilda is just down the hall,_ Zelda reminds herself, _she hasn’t left for good. Technically she hasn’t left at all. She’s just sleeping in a different room. Hilda is here. That means she’s safe. That means you’re safe. Everything is fine, she hasn’t left you, she hasn’t left you, she hasn’t left you._

 

Zelda repeats these thoughts to herself, willing her body to believe her and relax.

 

It works enough that Zelda no longer feels like she will hyperventilate to death, though her hands are still trembling and her heart is still beating too hard. She reaches for the crystal decanter that she’s taken to keeping on her bedside table, pours herself a generous helping. It takes a few gulps for the burn to register as the alcohol slides down her throat, but it helps.

  


…

  


When she climbs into Hilda’s bed a little later, curling around her sister’s back and cuddling into her soft warmth, Hilda stirs.

 

“Zelds?”

 

Zelda doesn’t trust her voice not to wobble, so she simply nods against Hilda’s pajama-clad shoulder blade.

 

Hilda turns over so that they’re face to face, her eyes still closed, and her toothpaste tinted breath ghosts over Zelda’s cheeks.

 

“Zelda, luv, what’s wrong? Ew, you’re all clammy,” Hilda interrupts her own concerned questioning when her hand lands on Zelda’s bare upper back, where her satin nightie leaves her sweaty skin exposed. Hilda blearily squints her eyes open as her hand retreats. She wipes her palm off on the soft flannel that covers her chest. Zelda finds the movement momentarily distracting.

 

Hilda’s face scrunches up adorably in sleepy confusion as she tries to blink the sand from her eyes, waiting for Zelda’s explanation.

 

Zelda knows it’s hopeless, knows that Hilda has always been able to see through her as if she were made of glass, but she still has to try to maintain her dignity. Even if it’s only to satisfy that stubborn part of herself that eschews any display of weakness.

 

Zelda clears her throat and tries for nonchalance as she says, “There’s a draft in my room.”

 

“Ah,” Hilda says as she reaches up to smooth over the hair at Zelda’s temple, “and this draft wouldn’t happen to have let in a nightmare, would it, sister?”

 

Zelda’s eyes close at Hilda’s gentle touch, which is a good thing as she can feel new tears begin to well up. She doesn’t quite trust her voice not to shake, but she answers with an evasive and far too watery for her liking, “Perhaps,” anyway.

 

“I see,” sighs Hilda, closing her eyes again. She wriggles herself up the bed a little so she can tuck Zelda’s head down into the curve of her shoulder and wraps her arms protectively around Zelda’s middle, pulling her closer. Hilda absently kisses Zelda’s hairline and nestles her older sister more securely under her chin. “Better sleep here, then,” she murmurs, already halfway back to sleep.

 

Zelda listens to Hilda’s steady heartbeat and allows herself to be lulled back to sleep, surrounded by Hilda’s comforting and familiar scent.

  
  
  



End file.
